Walking Corpses and How to Kill Them (A Guide by Stiles Stilinski)
by Razekker
Summary: So, the world is ending. Surprise, it's zombies. How did Stiles not see this coming?
1. The First Day of the End of the World

It all started on an ordinary day, Stiles waking up to find himself in the same position as he went to sleep- head on a mass of papers. He had been looking into a recent murder. It seemed like one of the creepy-crawlies was fond of children, well their spleens anyways. He had resolved to take care of it himself; no need to trouble the pack and all. Sure, he spoke to them every day, but c'mon since when did he need help?

Looking at the time, he became frantic to get to his next class, Advanced Forensics. It mattered little that he only got one and a half hours of sleep, in fact, that was more than the last few nights combined.

Stiles would have liked to claim he noticed the signs of something terrible approaching, but he was no werewolf, and thus he had no superhuman ability to hear the couple getting it on three blocks away being ripped to shreds and partially devoured. So he continued on down the hallway, bag in hand. He was lacking the needed text for this class. Please, he had memorized that book ages ago. Sometimes his eidetic memory could be a bitch, sure, but classes were a breeze.

The whisky eyed boy was embarrassed to say he felt nothing out of the norm, at least until the zombie tried to rip off his face and eat all the squishy insides that is. Stiles backed up quickly, almost stumbling over a chair. He grabbed the closest object, which happened to be a table, and bash the undead creature over the head with said table. The monster was momentarily stunned, and Stiles took this opportunity to run the fuck away, thank you very much.

Passing no one, living or otherwise, in the hallways the Stilinski rapidly made his way up to his dorm room. He dashed inside, fastening the deadbolt and pushing the huge ass oak desk of his in front of it. Feeling his heart hammer in his chest he made his way to his bag, throw across the floor in his haste. Stiles picked it up and called Scott. It only rang once before it connected.

"Stiles! Good you called, I'm having some trouble with Allison, and I need your help. Should I get red roses or white?" The werewolf paused "No, you're right, I should just get both. I have to go, bye." Stiles stared at the phone in his hand with disgust. Had Scott always been that bad of a friend, or was it just a new development?

Groaning, Stiles pressed another contact in his phone. Derek Hale. The alpha answered on the third ring

"What do you want Stiles." It seemed as though the werewolf was incapable of asking questions. Everything always turned out as a vaguely annoyed statement.

"Well, Sourwolf" Derek let out a small huff at that, "I was wondering if zombies exist" Stiles very subtly articulated.

"No Stiles, Zombies don't exist." You could hear the exasperation in hie eyebrows from here.

"Aha, well, you see, you're wrong about that one. i'm on campus, and it turns out that the undead enjoy feasting on slightly hyperactive and extremely fergalicious guys, so any input you or Creepy Uncle Peter may have on the whole flesh-eating-walking-corpses, would be greatly appreciated." By this point Stiles was ranting, talking faster and faster as the sentence progresses.

"Zombies Stiles, really. This is your worst one yet." The click of the receiver sounded, and with it went Stiles's heart.

Trying another number, Stiles was unable to connect, due to "an overuse of telephone servers at the moment, we are sorry for any inconvenience" or some bullshit like that. Yes it was inconvenient, he was about to die, and his friends were too shitty to help. Putting on his big boy pants, Stiles counted his fingers.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

9

10

Stiles breathed in deeply through his nose. Time to get to work.


	2. You Never See it Coming

**Stiles looked up from his hands, determination written across his face. He knew he had to get back to Beacon Hills- to his pack, to his father. He started to prepare, first heading to his closet. Replacing his skinny jeans with regular ones (for running, of course) He added a flannel on top of his dark gray Henley, and slid his no bare feet into his glorious steel toed combat boots./p**

 **These boots might have been the love of Stiles's life, you see, he had gotten them for his late-night antics back in Beacon Hills, and never regretted it once. So, of course he brought his babies to New York, just last week he had bashed the head of an alpha werewolf in with them. Handy, right?**

 **Grabbing the duffel bag from under his bed, Stiles added another pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie and of course, three pairs of underwear and socks. Seeing as the bag was a little under half full, he decided to leave his shelf of mementos behind bar one necklace his mother had gifted him on her deathbed in a fit of saneness.**

 **Pushing aside his small wire framed bed, Stiles pried up the wooden panels on the floor. Under them lay an assortment of weaponry and powders. He had Mountain Ash, Mistletoe, salt, iron and various other substances. Sliding a bag or vial of each into his bag, Stiles now had to choose his weapons. He didn't even hesitate in picking up the Glock 17 and tucking it into the back waste band of his pants. The next item strapped onto his body was a sharp blade colored like ebony. He had enchanted this very knife himself, working on it for weeks before he deemed it fit for combat.**

 **He took out a leather sheath and fastened it around his leg, and slid the dagger into place. Stiles picked up his beloved baseball bat, stained permanently red from the blood of those who crossed him, and leaned it on his bag, which was currently resting on the floor. His pocket knife was quickly stashed into his pocket, just as he threw the flash light into his bag. Taking a moment to decide, the whiskey eyed boy added another wicked looking blade to his bag.**

 **So maybe he was paranoid, but Zombies, okay. Can anyone blame him?**

 **Before he forgot, Stiles tucked all the magazines he owned into his duffel. These held both regular bullets and wolfs bane infused ones. Plus side is, both types would kill a human, and a zombie if he was lucky. Stiles had seen enough horror movies to know that a head shot could kill a zombie, shut up, movies totally made him an expert!/p**

 **Now that he was thoroughly outfitted with enough weapons to cover a small army, he opened his small cupboard for food, housed right next the small mini fridge. His dorm was tiny, okay? Just because he got a full ride to Cornell, doesn't mean he would be getting a suite with a massive bubble bath and working sink. At least he was lucky enough to room alone.**

 **Grabbing anything in even a slightly canish shape, Stiles threw them in his bag, but on closer inspection, he discarded the tuna, like why did he even have that? He pulled out some boxed macaroni and cheese along with all other preservables. Looking into the fridge, the youngest Stilinski grabbed all the water bottles physically possible and stuffed them into his duffel bag, which was now verging on full. Shit. He should have bought that water purifier thingy at the ridiculously overpriced outdoorsy store. Well, I guess breaking and entering is possible. I mean, he does have a baseball bat.**

 **Stiles took one look at his bag, and sighed in defeat. He resolved to not bring his sacred pillow, he simply didn't have room, and instead took a blanket resting atop his bed. Taking his overused and definitely over stuffed first aid kit turned mini hospital out of his closet, he added it to his growing bag of supplies. Glancing around the room, Stiles's eyes were drawn to an assortment of pictures taped around his mirror.**

 **A loud thump and shrieking broke him from his reverie, Stiles was about to go help the poor soul, already piking up his bat, before the yelling came to an abrupt stop, followed by a sickening snap bone. Well fuck. That was intense. He tried not to think of who it could have been, and instead focused on finding the keys to his Jeep. Did you think he'd leave Roscoe behind? That's practically blasphemy. There was a new noise, causing Stiles to jump. A dull scratching was heard on his door, followed by a pounding ferocious enough to break all the little bones in that hand.**

 **It stopped as soon as it started, and he heard the dragging of feet as the undead creature dragged itself away. Stiles dragged the desk away from the door, unpleased with all the noise it made. Now feeling particular tense and altogether unhappy, Stiles picked threw on his a red hoodie and lifted up his bag and grabbed his beloved bat. Waiting a few moments, he opened the door, looked both ways, /p**

 **And ran like hell.**


	3. Trying Vey Hard NOT to Die

Stiles began his mad dash down the hallway, trying not to focus on the walls streaked with blood or the discarded intestines resting on the floorboards. The once yellow wallpaper was now marred with red hand prints and and splatters of blood. He passes the girl, the one whose scream he heard, or what was left of her at least. She was missing a throat and seemed to have been repeatedly bitten and chewed, judging by the state of he stomach. The corridor lights were flickering eerily, going dark before shining on again. The process repeated, frightening Stiles more and more each time, for he feared each flicker would be the bulbs last.

Still sprinting for all he was worth (thank you Coach Finstock), he was just rounding the corner when he came face to face with the snapping jaws of a zombie. It's head was partially caved in, the mass of tissue inside looked like blended rabbit, bloody and meaty. Stiles quickly backtracked, dropping his bag in the process. The creature surged forward, and in a moment of panic, Stiles brought up his bat and proceeded to beat the monster with it.

He hit the creature in the head, causing it to go down. Seeing if fall didn't stop him, not even for a moment. Stiles pulled out the bat with a wet squelch, and hit the zombie again. And Again. And again. He beat it until the corpse was unidentifiable as human, now it looked only like blood, bone and tissue. Seeing what he had done, Stiles took a step back and grabbed his bag. he pulled the strap up on his shoulder, not daring to look at the freshest blood splatters now decorating the wall and himself, and resumed movement.

Continuing on, but at a slower pace this time, Stiles tried to make his way down to the ground level where his Jeep awaited him. Purposefully listening for any noises besides the screaming of the zombie's victims, the whiskey eyed boy made his way. Opening the door to the stairwell, Stiles rushed down them three at a time, after seeing they were void of the beasts.

After reaching the bottom, and quite quickly might he add, Stiles hesitated at the door to the outside. To the parking lot.

See, contrary to popular belief, zombies don't groan, they don't even make any particularly loud or specific noises, bar the shuffling of sometimes missing and/or broken feet. I mean, why would they? Half of them were missing throats, and all of them were dead (right?), they don't really seem like the bunch you'd have to file noise complaints on. Stiles should know, his dad's the sheriff. God Stiles, shouldn't think about his dad. He'll make it back to the sheriff, he has to.

Letting the thought of his father fuel his resolve, Stiles swung the door to the lot open with a hiss. Damn, he had never noticed how badly that door needed oil. Remember what I said about zombies not making a whole lot of noise? Yeah, well, that's why Stiles just opened the door to a large congregation of the undead. Fuck his life.

The zombie's heads snapped to his location after the door opened. Maybe not so dead after all. After a moment of pure, unadulterated silence, the creatures snapped to attention and raced after the human. Hefting his bat, Stiles swung it at the closest zombie, successfully stunning it, and took off to where he parked his Jeep.

He finally found it after agonizing minutes of searching, weaving and silent stabbing. Jumping into the car and starting the ignition with fumbling hands, Stiles peeled off out of the infested parking lot. Unable to relax, nor release any amount of tension from his body, Stiles held his breath. He was far from being in the clear, a fact which was reminded to him as he sent a creature flying as he rammed it with his beloved Jeep.

"Sorry baby" Stiles apologized to his car "Shit Roscoe, what are we gonna do?". He was suddenly feeling a wave of hopelessness, a feeling which was only reinforced by the vast amount of zombies lining the streets of New York. Well duh, what else could he expect? It was one of the most heavily populated cities in the world. Why did he move here again?

Stiles would bet his life that Beacon Hills was free of flesh-eating monsters, well except for Peter that is. He knew he should have stayed when Derek asked him to. If he did, then he wouldn't be stuck traveling across the country pursued by killer corpses. What even is his life?

Getting his head back to the matter at hand, Stiles considered his options. Stay and hide in the busy city over running with zombies, or leave the city and head back to beacon hills to see his family and friends? Hmmm, tough choice.

So he had to get out of the city, and fast. Let's just hope to all things holy (not that Stiles actually believed in them) that he would survive. How about he prays the Fairy Queen? Stiles knows for a fact she exist, and she likes him too. He did save the life of her and all her subjects, so he did see why she enjoys his existence. Other than his amazing personality and hot bod that is.

He just needs to avoid zombies and leave the city. How hard can it be?


	4. Kicking Ass, but not Taking Names

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p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;" /p  
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p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"He pulled into the parking lot of the nearest station, which seemed void of the zombies for the time being. Opening the door with a soft click, Stiles stepped out onto the asphalt, wincing when his boot crunched the broken glass coming from the store. First things first, gas. He would need to fill his tank and get as many of the gas cans as he possibly could fit. He put the nozzle in his tank, and started to fill it with the fuel. Stiles tugged the keys out of the ignition, yet still left the door open if he needed a quick escape, and headed in the store while his tank filled./p  
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;" /p  
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"The whiskey eyed boy gripped the handle of his bat with sweaty palms, listening for the smallest of sounds. He listened for the shuffling of feet, the ripping of prey or screams of terror. None of those sounds came. Instead of opening the door, which looked rusted and housed a bell, he stepped through the shattered window, careful not to repeat his earlier mistake of stepping on the glass and thus alerting any hostiles to his presence./p  
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;" /p  
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p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;" /p  
p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"Seeing the now full tank, the youngest Stilinski capped the can and slid it into the boot. He queued up the next can, repeating the process. This time, he decided to head back in to the store to scrounge for any useful items. After a few minutes of digging, he came across some grossly orange nylon rope and some cheep matches. He shrugged and pocketed both, you could never be too careful. At least, not in the apocalypse./p  
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p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"Stiles pulled out his gun, took a deep breath and steadied his trembling hands. Bang. Bang. Bang. Three headshots. Being the son of the sheriff had some perks, gun training and the avoidance of speeding tickets were just a few of the many. He emptied his clip into the mass, zombies dropping with every other bullet. Once he ran out of ammo, Stiles went into a panic, and pocketed the gun. He pulled the blade out of his thigh scabbard and charged. The first sweep of his knife impaled the first monster in the head. Dragging the blade out of the beasts temple, he ripped it into the chest of the next one. Stiles dogged the arm swung at his head and sprinted to his Jeep. He jumped in the door and slid his keys in the ignition, waiting for the engine to turn over. The remaining few of of the horde dragged their nails and ragged finger tips over the sides of his car./p  
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p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"He rammed on the egnition and sped away from the station, Jeep full of supplies and one tank of gas. Stiles let out a woop of joy, screaming at the top of his lungs. The adrenaline was still coursing through his veins had yet to fade. He felt on top of the world. So much so in fact, that he failed to notice the blood seeping from his elbow./p  
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p style="border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-size: 15.12px; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; vertical-align: baseline; list-style: none; margin: 1.286em auto; padding: 0px; line-height: 1.5; color: #2a2a2a;"The scene he left behind at the station was horrific to say the least. Half rotted corpses littered the ground, other zombies eating their fill of the meat. Gasoline slowly leaked out across the pavement, shining like rainbows./p 


	5. Somewhere to Rest Your Weary Eyes

Running away from the mob at the gas station was absolutely terrifying and thrilling, each in their own way. He had never felt so alive, or so close to being dead. Sties could really get the whole adrenaline junkie thing now. You just got a natural high off it. This is not in anyway to mean that Stiles is going to go batshit crazy and take on hordes of the undead, _no, just no_. Stiles was way too smart to pull shit like that.

Having a full tank had put him in high spirits, well as high as they could get when facing the promise of a death where all your loved ones wouldn't know your fate. But whatever, he had the means to keep moving, even if he was on the verge of passing out from sheer exhaustion. Stiles logically knew he had to find somewhere to rest, his Jeep wouldn't do, yet he was afraid. Sure, he had killed some zombies, but could he handle them while asleep? He sincerely doubted it.

Stiles had long since refilled his gun with ammo, once again storing it in his waistband of his jeans. The man (for he could no longer be considered a boy) had also cleaned the blade of his knife, letting the blood decorate the backseat of his Jeep. Oh how he longed for the days where red was a decent color. Speaking of blood, he just noticed the read dripping on his jeans, coming from his elbow which was extended over his leg so he could grip the steering wheel.

Stiles hit the brakes, sending the car spinning a full one-eighty degrees. _Holy shit._ "No, no, no, no, no..." he repeated as if chanting it would make it true. He ripped off his jackets and shirt, not caring about the pain it caused. If he was infected…. No, Stiles couldn't be. He didn't remember being bitten or scratched, so maybe he was fine.

Stiles was unsure as to what to do. Thoughts flickered through his mind, yet only a few stood out. One was Stiles wrapping it and becoming a mindless creature that ripped into the flesh of any living thing it came across. The next was his committing suicide, gun in his mouth, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation. Another was of him sawing off his arm with his knife, and wrapping it in gauze.

None of these options seemed exactly favorable. But at least he could have a chance of surviving the last idea. Before he could think it over too much, Stiles grabbed a match from his pocket and lit the driver's manual ablaze. Hands shaking, Stiles held his knife over the flame, trying to sanitize it. Better not to die of infection, thank you.

Stiles tentatively lowered the hot knife, his arm hairs burning from their close proximity to the heat. The knife wobbled like a quarter that had finished spinning, but had yet to fall. He remembered all those years ago when Derek Hale had asked him to saw off his arm. Chuckling humorlessly, Stiles desperately wished for that bone saw, god that would be perfect right now. Stiles hadn't done it that night, he would of, but he didn't.

And looking back on it, he's glad he kep the blade away from flesh, Derek was fine. That's all that mattered. Sure he'd still be alive, even without two arms, but Stiles would have never recovered. Oh god, look at him now, completely willing to saw off his own arm without any antiseptic, morphine or booze. It would have been comical if it had been anyone else.

Looking down to where the blade touched the skin of his right arm, just above his elbow, he dropped the knife, burning himself in the process. Well more than before, that is. He now had a perfectly horizontal burn running parallel to his elbow. If he got out of this, it would leave a badass scar (he already had so many of those). That was good, right? He could get all the dates.

What is him cutting off his arm was the wrong choice? Maybe Stiles could live without his limb, but maybe he didn't have to. Why not risk it? He's probably going to die anyway, might as well have his whole body there to see it. He can't have a party without the whole gang.

So instead of cutting through bone and flesh, Stiles pulled out the first aid kit, opening the well worn latch. He got out the antiseptic and poured the liquid over his cut, twisting his arm at an awkward angle to see it. He clenched his teeth and got out the super glue.

He twisted off the cap to the bottle and squeezed it into the cut, pinching the sides together. Sure, he could stitch it up, but it was on his elbow, no way in hell could he keep those in place. He'd rather not have to do it again, thanks.

He gave it a moment to dry, before putting a patch over his cut and wrapping some gauze around his arm from mid forearm to just below his burn. Stiles scattered the wrappers to the medical items on the floor, and put everything back into his kit, closing it after much prodding. He needed a bigger box. That would have to wait, it's not really a priority now, especially when he glanced up.

Stiles observed the road. He was alone, a little voice in his head whispered _for how long?_ Well, even if he was going crazy, at least he was smart even when insane. Stiles knew he had to get going, almost as much as he needed rest. You see, his record had been 122 hours of pure awakeness, nightmares, y'know? He as good at being awake, but between the stress and physical activity, Stiles was exhausted, no, beyond that.

Stiles decided to stop at the nearest safe (okay, nowhere was safe, but he meant the most safe) place, whether it be a home or an office, and get some damn sleep. So on he drove, only fueled by the mental promise of rest and time to eat more than a pack of beef jerky. Don't get him wrong, jerky had provided sustenance for many late night research sessions and stakeouts, but Stiles was sick of it.

Some hours later, Stiles passes a moldy old inn, similar to the one hie visited with his lacrosse team, yeah, the suicide one. Joy. Even if the place didn't bring back positive memories, it offered a place to rest and possibly even a shower. The place looked abandoned, and Stiles took that as a good omen. He pulled up to the small office of the inn, where the sell the keys to the rooms and pushed open the door after scouting it out through the window.

As he entered, a little bell rang, which he ignored. He went behind the desk and chose the first key which for some reason was labeled "271", simultaneously noting the keys missing. There were two absent, other than his. Stiles had no way to no if they were rented out pre or post apocalypse, he hopped it was the former, less of a chance he'll run into anyone.

Stiles saw a vending machine in the corner and without hesitation, he lifted his bat, which he now took everywhere and smashed in the glass. He probably should have thought that through…. Well, it's too late now. The whiskey eyed man grabbed the most filling things, which included eight bags of chips, three bags of peanut butter crackers and two bags of skittles. Opening the door with his foot, he exited the office and climbed back in his jeep. Stiles scattered the chips and company across the passenger seat carelessly, and pulled out of his parking space. Stiles wanted to park as close to his room as possible, incase he needed a quick getaway.

Deciding to break all rules of common courtesy, Stiles parked up on the walkway between rooms, so the nose of Roscoe was up against the wall below his room's window. He grabbed some food, water and all of his weapons and exited the car. He had long since re-sheathed his knife, giving it time to cool down.

It took a few tries, and all of his patients before the cheap door swung open, revealing a rickety bed with quilted sheets a nightstand, a chair and a small bathroom with yellow appliances. Deciding to take a shower later, Stiles pushed the chair under the doorknob and set his things on the floor before unceremoniously dumped himself on the bed. Sliding off his boots, Stiles fell asleep as soon as his head touched down.

Stiles awoke as the light of a new day filtered through his window. He woke to a rustling coming just through his window. Stiles bolted upright, instantly awake and picked up his bat, and pocketing his gun. It didn't sound like the halting shuffle of the undead, instead it sounded vaguely human. He readied himself by the door, and swung it open abruptly, and looked around.

He heard a small squeak, before he saw a mop of light brown hair trying to run. Stiles grabbed the boy's arm, bringing him to a stop.


	6. The Only One we Couldn't Bare to Lose

POV The Pack.

While Stiles was fighting for his life in the midst of the apocalypse, the Pack was sitting in the newly rebuilt Hale house. Derek, their pack Alpha, had called an emergency meeting, not telling anyone why. Though, to be perfectly honest, most of the members of the pack with even half a brain cell knew why. So basically, everyone bar Scott McCall, at least he had a motorcycle, right?

The subject of the meeting was blatantly obvious, especially if you turned on the TV, checked social media or even went out in public, like at all. Zombies overrunning half the country had become the focus of just about everyone, whether they be in the midst of the undead or not.

A covert military unit of special soldiers had taken over after a long period without communication from the Pentagon. Their leader, an ex Navy Seal, was considered the highest authority at this point, seeing as how no word had been heard from the President or anyone under him for that matter. So this man, in all his authority, had quarantined over half of the United States of America, spanning down the Eastern border of Montana, Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico. For the first few days, the wall had been constructed out of fences and soldiers. Now though, they wall was mostly concrete and guarded by guns and mines.

It may seem extreme, to cut off a large portion of people like that, but the East Coast and Midwest as well as most of the South had been compromised completely. The quarantine, however, hadn't been completely heartless, as an entrance point into the surviving states had been constructed on the Wyoming border.

Getting into the West was quit the process. Once you made it there, you were placed alone in a holding cell for 72 hours to see if you would turn. Next, if you weren't one of the first 5,000 people to take refuge in the remaining states, you had to take an exam to test your intelligence and a test of basic survival skills. Needless to say, if you failed, you were thrown out like trash. Naturally children under the age of 15 were exempt from this process.

But this was beside the point. The nature of this meeting revolved around one Stiles Stilinski. He was the one everyone told about their problems. He was the one you asked for help, whether it be stitching you up, relationship advice or school work. He was someone who would burn himself out to keep the others warm. He was the man many desired to be, yet the man in question had no idea of his value. No one ever thanked him, besides Derek, that is, and no one ever acknowledged the things he did. Not to say stiles noticed, he felt these 'people' deserved him.

Despite it all, Stiles stayed with the pack of young adults, for better or worse. That was why they were meeting about Stiles. He was trapped, so to speak, on the other side of the country, his whereabouts and condition were unknown due to a lack of communication.

The telephone usage had been stopped, first by the sheer amount of calls, and next by the government, or what was left of it. They did so in time with the quarantine, successfully cutting the USA off from the rest of the world, not letting its citizens share or record the events of the Outbreak. Sure, people were angry, they were downright furious, but it really wasn't the time for a governmental revolution.

Once again, this is but a tangent, a few pieces of information whirling around in the typhoon of thought and fear that raged on around the country.

Frankly, the Pack only really cared about seeing their friend again, and they still held out hope they would meet him again, yet, despair seemed to drown that out more and more with each passing day. They were far from giving up, but oh so close to losing hope.

As soon as every member of the Hale Pack had gathered, including Derek, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Lydia, Jackson, Scott and Allison. Occasionally Peter, if you counted him. It seemed Stiles was the only one who realized both the potential and danger the man had; the others had just resolved to avoid as much contact with the homicidal man as possible.

"So, I'm sure you all know why I called you all here" Derek stated that way of his, eyebrows of doom the most expressive thing on his face. B+Various expressions could be seen on the faces of his packmates as he said this, there was fear, sadness, anger and…. Confusion?

Lydia was the first to speak up after a relatively short pause "Well, Derek, if you are referring to our friend stuck amongst a horde of zombies, possibly being ripped apart as we speak, while we do absolutely _nothing_ about it, then I'm sure we know why you asked us here" Many of the pack members shared uncomfortable glances at this statement.

Jackson was the only one willing to respond to Lydia, especially because of her anger, and as Stiles said, Lydia was a goddess whose wrath would be feared "Yeah, I'd bet my Porsche he's already one of them." The way he said this was condescending, but if you looked closely, you could see just how tense and worried he was at the thought.

Jackson's prior statement was met with a stony silence and multiple glares. "Oh, shut up jackass, Batman would never die out there, I mean he's survived much worse out here with the pack…" Erica retorted, but lost momentum at the end, trailing off with little conviction.

Stiles had been through a lot with his pack, sacrificing himself time and time again, but truthfully it was nothing compared to the apocalypse.

You could practically hear the group thinking, no, longing for their friend.

"Guys, I get that you're worried and all, but we should consider Stiles a lost cause. We should really focus on making here safe for the pack" This time, it was Scott who spoke up, simultaneously wrapping his arm around his beloved Allison, who just grinned back in response.

The rest of the Pack, however, looked downright murderous, their eyes scorching with flame, expressions resembling the clouds gathered before a storm.

"Get. Out." It was Derek who said this, eyebrows showing an anger the pack had never seen on the man, for he had practically snarled the words at Scott, fangs extended and eyes glowing blood red.

"W-what?" Scott stuttered, looking for all the world terrified, already baring his neck in submission.

"You heard me" Derek commanded "Leave" An Alpha's world was law to a Beta or an Omega, so Scott did as he was told, looking confused the whole time.

Allison stood up shortly thereafter, a glare resting on her features "Screw you Derek, Scott's just looking out for us" She abruptly turned on her heel and striding out of the room. The effect of her dramatic exit was slightly (read:completely) ruined when she stumbled on the way out.

The slamming of the door left the pack members in silence, free to relive their own memories of the whiskey eyed man.

 **ISAAC-**

Isaac remembered that night, it had permanently been etched into his brain and heart, the night that he had felt truly cared for. The first time in his life that he felt safe and loved.

That was the first night he spent in Stiles Stilinski's bed, wrapped in solid arms, crying over memories and nightmares, over wounds both mental and physical.

Stiles hadn't even been phased when the werewolf entered through his window at two am sobbing and looking terrified, he only stood up from his desk and pulled the boy into a hug. Stiles had moved them to the bed, whispering sweet comforts through Isaac's tears, smoothly rubbing the boy's back.

Stiles held Isaac, dragging his fingers through Isaac's hair, not seeming the least bothered by the tears soaking his shirt. It continued on this way for a while, almost an hour, as a matter of fact, before the crying came to a halt. Saying nothing, Stiles got up, not acknowledging the wine that rose from the Beta.

Stiles came back a moment later, holding a glass of water, and a package of tissues. He gave the glass to Isaac, glaring until the boy downed the whole thing, and placed the tissues on the night stand, resuming his position around Isaac.

For the first time in his life, Isaac had found a place he could safely be himself, a refuge where he didn't have to pretend. It quickly became habit to climb up to the sheriff's son's room after one of his horrific nightmares.

 **ERICA-**

After Erica gained the powers of a wolf, and cured her epilepsie, she had been dressing to the nines. Her breasts were given full attention, trying to make up for all the time she lost fearing her seizures.

This caused her to be objectified by almost all straight teenage boys at her highschool, sure she liked the attention, but how she dresses, does _not_ mean she will bang any sex-deprived little boy who asks her too.

So, even though Erica was used to the degrading comments directed her way, she never welcomed them. All they did was bring back old memories of worthlessness. She was back to the days where no one cared about her suffering, that was until one day when a gentleman appeared to assist her.

There was a group of teenage boys hanging around the parking lot after school had ended, who had laid eyes on her and all the skin she was showing. Of course, being the good samaritans they were, the boys started flinging sexist and demeaning remarks toward her, and following Erica to her car.

Now don't be mistaken, Erica could easily rip all of these boys apart, piece by piece, peeling flesh from bone, but she wouldn't. Murder wasn't really her thing, if they were non-hunter humans, that is.

So to say she was surprised when the boy crowding especially close to her, making crude gestures, fell to the pavement was putting it defender must have been badass, because the rest of the boys fled the scene as soon as their leader went down, out cold on the asphalt.

When her savior turned around, it was none other than Stiles Stilinski. It was the first time anyone had stood up for her.

 **BOYD-**

Boyd had always sat alone at lunch. That was just a fact of life, one that he had come to accept and expect over the years. So, imagine his surprise when a pale man seated himself across from Boyd, lunch tray in hand and began talking at (yes at, Boyd never responded) Boyd, babbling about random things like the types of clouds and why people have taste buds.

The werewolf had no idea how to handle it, and sat in silence for the majority of their 'conversation', until he became more comfortable, adding his piece every once and awhile.

Whenever Boyd spoke up, Stiles would grin and continue on, understanding that he didn't feel a compulsion to talk all the time like Stiles did. Stiles seemed to get him, like no one else ever had.

 **JACKSON-**

Jackson was insecure, he hid it well, sure, but he was insecure all the same. Ever since he found out he was adopted, he had felt the irrational need to succeed and accomplish the most difficult of things. It was easy to hide behind a douchey better-than-you expression, which was ever present on his features.

He was unsure how to handle his developing relationship with one Lydia Martin, and lashed out when he felt they were getting too close. He pushed her away, over and over again out of fear of abandonment.

For they couldn't leave you, if you never let them be here in the first place, right? Do why did it hurt so much to be a part?

Jackson had just made a big mistake with Lydia, and he needed advice on how to handle it, and the only person he felt he could ask was Stiles. Maybe it was cruel, asking the man who had been in love with Lydia since the first grade for relationship advice, but he needed help.

So Jackson went to Stiles, where he was reprimanded for hurting Lydia, then to his shock, hugged and concoled. It seemed the whiskey eyed boy understood why Jackson did what he did, and man, that was a relief.

 **LYDIA-**

Lydia had always pretended to be an airhead, trading her intellect for her beauty and popularity, and everyone ha believed it, well almost everyone. There was one man who saw through all her pretenses, and saw the woman underneath, a genius hidden from the world.

Stiles was the first to see it, and the first to appreciate it. He admired her from afar, until he became close friends with her.

More currently, they had started having TV and movie marathons, sharing some of their favorite literature, without any masks on Lydia's face. She could be the genius she is, and be unafraid of her reputation dismantling.

This was some of her favorite time, because she could unwind and speak without barriers to a man she trusted wholeheartedly.

 **DEREK-**

The first thing in Derek's mind when he thought of the intelligent boy with the whiskey eyes was reget. Deep and profound regret, not that he showed it, of course.

Derek regretted the way he had always callously pushed Stiles away, never missing a chance to either physically harm or belittle him.

The werewolf also regretted how much he depended on Stiles, and it seemed as though every time Derek spoke, he'd be waiting for some sarcastic or correctional remark from the hyperactive teen that somehow became a part of his life. This made Derek realize just how used he was to Stiles's presence in his life, and once again regretting it, deciding to bury the happiness of finally connecting with another person. Regret was easier, so that was what he chose.

And Finally, Derek regretted the way he had completely disregarded Stiles's attempt to figure out what was happening and basically told the other male to "go fuck yourself, zombies don't exist, _you dipshit"_. And while not in entirely those words, they portrayed the same meaning.

It seemed as though Derek can never do right by Stiles, and has gotten accustomed to the feeling of regret twisting up his insides.


End file.
